


Alive

by Jamie_Anya



Series: Hiddlesworth's Short Stories [5]
Category: Australian Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Hurt and comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Tumblr:imagineyourotp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Anya/pseuds/Jamie_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom has been trying very hard to hide the scars from Chris. Until...</p><p>Prepare your box of tissues before reading, you've been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Pardon my poor writing, this fic is not beta'd - English is not my first language, i'm afraid. 
> 
> Author warns you not to re-enact this dangerous activity, hell awaits you if you do.

Blinking.

  
The cold shower woke him from unconsciousness, realising that he was bathing in his own pool of diluted blood. His wrists had stopped bleeding as he watched his skin tattered and loose from his own layer of muscle. He wondered if he should try stabbing himself next instead of cutting. Stabbing would be a good idea, cutting would only allow you to have second thoughts.

  
Tom trembled and wheezed when he forced himself to sit up, his head weighed him like tonnes of lead. His skin had wrinkled, paled after perhaps, hours spent in the water. Sharp and bloody razors scattered all over the bathroom floor, used bandages and tissues piled on the sink as trails and drops of his blood had dried on the mirror and the clear tiles. He let the shower 'cleanse' him from his nightmares, wearily blinking as he wondered why he didn't die just yet.

  
Maybe the blade didn't reach his vein.

  
Or maybe the blade wasn't sharp enough. Should he use the kitchen knife instead, next time?

  
Though Tom knew, he was so 'close'.

  
He looked at the ragged tears on his wrists, he thought of stitching his skin back together but that meant healing. Picking up the razor blades as he ignored the cuts on the pads of his fingers, he threw them into the trash can along with the bloodied bandages and tissues. Turning off the shower tap, with a knowing painful difficulty, he changed his clothes and grabbed a fresh roll of bandages from the medicine cabinet.

  
Trembling, Tom wrapped his wrists as tightly as he could - his skin would eventually close up on its own. And told himself he should buy more bandages and long sleeved shirts, to avoid the others from noticing. Especially Chris.

  
*

  
His stomach couldn't digest pills, his system would immediately eject them away and sometimes he would even spew out blood - mixed with the contents of his food and bile. Tom pondered if he should go for therapy, but the voice in his head screamed at him - 'don't!'.

  
The nightmares. It all started ever since his home-sweet-home was caught on fire three months ago. His parents were no more, his sisters dead. He was the only one alive out of bitter luck of running to a nearby convenience store to buy some puddings for his family. Since then, he had been living in Chris' apartment - unable to forget the tragic event he witnessed in front of his very eyes.

  
He stared blankly at the food Chris prepared for him; strips of fried chicken, sweet vegetables, mashed potatoes. It looked delicious, but he surprisingly didn't feel hungry. Just to avoid Chris' saddened look after seeing his dinner went uneaten, Tom munched on the broccoli, for a few seconds to minutes.

  
Eating his own share of food silently, Chris stole a few worried glances at his withdrawing boyfriend and cleared his throat, "...You should try the chicken next. It's your favourite, right?"

  
Tom nodded mutely.

  
Dejected at the dead silence he received, Chris then remembered spotting small beads of blood on the sink and his continuously missing razor blades. He thought of something, and told himself it might be dangerously possible. He even started to notice how Tom would hide his hands away whenever Chris was around. But knew that Tom wouldn't reply any of his questions and spent their dinner in bleak stillness.

  
*

  
It was a week later that he noticed that his wrists had swollen badly. It was very painful. His old skin was curling away, ready to be plucked, though not all of his wounds had yet to heal. Chris had to leave for his late night shift at the hospital, and Tom found the right moment to finally 'leave' everything behind - including his dear, dear Chris.

  
He wanted to join his family, and so he would fulfil it.

  
Ripping the bandages off from his wrists, his eyes followed the sharp gashes of his wounds and the swell of black and blue. Would the swelling burst to bits of meat and blood by the time he poked the knife on it? His shaking hand reached for the kitchen knife and staggered to the bathroom where he decided that the small, cold floor would be his 'deathbed'.

  
He stared at his exhausted self in the mirror, he was pale enough to blend with the white tiles of the bathroom. There were trickles of fresh tears falling from his eyes, and soon he was sobbing down on the floor. Gripping onto the wooden handle of the knife with his bare hands, Tom aimed the sharp point of the blade on his chest - where his heart supposed to be.

  
"...Chris..." he cried, his breath hitched.

  
Just before Tom could stab himself, Chris barged into the bathroom - panting, eyes widening as he caught the whole attempt in shock. Taking the knife away from his darling's cold hands and threw it away from him. It was not pity that he saw in Chris, it was rage - as he should be.

  
"What were you thinking...?!" he shouted, grabbing Tom on his forearms as he shook him, "Don't you dare leave me, Tom...! Don't you fucking dare...!"

  
There were tears in Chris' eyes. He wrapped his arms around Tom's trembling body, burying his face in his shoulder as he sobbed. Finally, he understood. What would Chris feel if he left him? He must have felt the same.

  
"Don't you dare..."

  
"C-Chris..." Tom whimpered, clutching onto Chris' shirt, "...Please... help me..."

  
*

  
His eyes followed the zigzag stitches on both of his wrists, the swelling had disappeared and suddenly he thought, he was fortunate that it was nothing serious. Tom would spent his entire month in therapy, and his doctor said it would be best that instead of sharing his pain with strangers he didn't know, he would share his pain at least with the person he trusted the most. Tom breathed, he was still alive.

  
There was a knock on the door, and his said doctor - Chris - smiled softly at him. He sat beside him on the bed, and asked, "How are you feeling?"

  
"...I feel fine, thank you," he replied, trying to mimic the smile that he had left for months.

  
Staring into the pair of beautiful cerulean, Tom rested his head on Chris' shoulder - basking in his love once more in this life of second chance. He felt Chris gently linking his hand with him, bringing his hand close to his mouth - kissing his fingers, his palm then his wrist.

  
Replacing the pain, with love he yearned to feel.   
  


 

"...I love you."  
  


"Love you too, Tom."  
  


Once again, he breathed. He felt very much alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry! Blame my brain for making Tom so suicidal! DDx


End file.
